Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [182]
Lee shook his head, rubbed his fingers through his beard. “No, there will be no advance. We have no cause to move off the good ground. We have beaten them from this ground . . . we will do it again.”
“I don’t believe they will give us the chance.”
“I hope you are wrong, General. This has been a war of missed opportunities. We have let them get away before. I do not wish to make that mistake again. We cannot continue to lose men . . . good officers. . . . We cannot trade casualties with an enemy that has much greater numbers and much greater resources. If we are to win this war, we must strike a decisive blow . . . force him to admit defeat.” He turned away from the fire, walked slowly toward the crest of the tall hill, toward the wide, dark field. “He will try again . . . maybe to the south, below General Jackson. It should have been his plan from the start . . . not here, not against these hills. We must tell General Stuart to observe him closely, watch for movement by Franklin’s forces. General Reynolds is down there. He is a good commander, knows how to position his troops.”
Longstreet stayed close behind him, and Lee still moved forward, reached the crest and began to walk down, between the batteries. The clouds were thinning now, the moon reflecting on the flat plain. There were scattered shots from below, from the base of the long hill to the left, the men in the sunken road firing at motion in the moonlight.
Longstreet chewed on the cigar, put the hat back on his head, said, “Sir, John Reynolds will not move anywhere Burnside does not tell him to move. It is still Burnside’s army. We have beaten him. There will be another day, but it will not be here.”
Lee said nothing, watched the shadows of the small clouds move across the field, and suddenly there was a bright flash, a searing band of color jumped out of the sky, and he flinched, raised his hand up to his face. But there was no sound, it was completely silent, and now he saw a wide sheet of green, and the light spread out over him, rippled, then was gone. To the north there was another, turning slightly red, and around them the men began cheering, yelling.
Longstreet said, “The aurora . . . the northern lights.”
Lee kept staring up, the lights dancing and flickering, then spreading out wide, then moving away. “My God . . . I’ve never seen anything like this before. Are you . . . certain, General?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Used to see them once in a while in Pennsylvania, when I was at Carlisle. Quite a show sometimes.” Longstreet began to chuckle, was enjoying the spectacle.
Lee said, “No . . . it is more than that, General. It is a sign. We have pleased God. He is honoring the dead. A sight like this cannot be . . . just an accident. This is Sunday . . . the Sabbath. No, it is no accident.”
Longstreet said nothing, stared upward, and the calls were echoing now, across the field, soldiers on both sides absorbing the wondrous sight. Longstreet looked down at the flat ground, saw the colors reflecting off what was left of the snow, thought, We are all sharing this . . . both sides. If God has smiled on us, then He will also smile on them.
December 15, 1862
THE FOG returned, and he woke to more wet cold, and an army still shivering. Lee pushed out of the tent, could see up toward the top of his hill, rolling mist and dark shapes. He looked for Taylor, for the others, saw no one, thought, They cannot be sleeping, must be . . . breakfast. He thought of going toward the food, tried to pick up the smells, but the heavy mist was in the way, and he walked the other way, back up over the crest. He saw small groups of men gathering around the guns. Someone saw him and hats were raised quietly. They knew by now not to shout, not to alert the enemy. Down the hill he could see nothing, just a sea of thick gray, and he listened hard, heard voices, movement, the sound of tin coffee cups, nothing else.
He turned, climbed back up to the crest, toward his tent, saw a man kneeling, working on the fire, wet wood and quiet curses. The smells began to reach him, coffee, fresh